Unsung Love Story
by Katu-Bunny
Summary: Can Meg teach Erik that life is still worth living? Through Music, can Erik finally find love? Bad summary. Good fic.
1. Longing For Death

Hello, and thank your for choosing Unsung Love Storyfor your ErikxMeg needs! I'm Katu, your author, and in this brief Author's Note, I am going to-Oh, nevermind. Just wanted to cheer you up a little before exposing you to the extreme angst that is Erik's life.

To all n00bs: Erik is the Phantom. Read the fricking book.

To everyone: I adore critiques, though blatant bum-kissing is also appreciated, and flames will be used to burn down my local Opera House. That said, on to the story!

* * *

**Chapter 1: Longing for Death**

* * *

It had been nearly four months since the Opera Populaire closed. The insides had been scorched out, leaving little but the charred remains of both luxury and toil as audience to the operatic echoes that never completely died away. The House was declared condemned, no one was allowed in, anymore.

That was why Margaret Giry, Meg for short, was clad entirely in dark colours, covering her fair skin and hair, as she picked her way through the blackened, rain-eroded detritus inside the ruined Opera House. She knew where she was going...she'd been there once before, and her memory was good. The charred dressing-rooms and crunching glass-shards soon gave way to dank enclosure, solid stone passages that had remained untouched by fire.

Her mother had always expressly forbidden her exploring the catacombs beneath the building, but all the same had warned her to keep her hand at the level of her eyes. Meg was unafraid, however, because cupped in her small, cold hand was her ticket through this area. The white of it glinted in the dim torchlight.

* * *

Many of the passages had caved in to one extent or another, and the going was less than easy, for limber as Meg was, she was wearing women's clothes, and her skirts tended to get caught. As she cautiously climbed down a particularly large slope of rubble, her footing gave way, and with her legs sliding out from underneath her, her arms windmilled, and the smooth, white skull of the mask in her hand flew away across the floor. Upon landing, and with little thought to her aching derriere, she immediately rushed to the mask and lifted it gently. It was unscathed, much to Meg's relief. Its demise could likely mean her own.

She gazed at it, cold and beautiful in the flickering firelight. It was not her mask. This she knew, and yet she still felt somehow cheated to have to return it to its rightful owner. She had saved his life, after all, had declared him dead and brandished the mask as proof. She'd kept it as a sort of token, something to remember her life with the opera by. She'd intended to keep it. But he'd found her.

* * *

It was no secret that the Phantom preferred to remain alone, hidden, in the catacombs of the Opera Populaire. And there he had been, for the past month, scarcely leaving his organ to eat or sleep, letting his bitter tears mingle with the ivory keys beneath his fingers, to sweeten the love's reqiuem he was composing. Love was dead to him, now, even more so than it had been before Christine, and he was dead to it. Certainly, he should just end what remained of his meagre existence, for without power and without love, he was without purpose.

He struck a dischord, and threw himself violently from his keyboard, making little effort to stand as he did so. His knees buckled beneath the weight of his sorrow, and he fell into music's altar behind him, overturning hundreds of candles in various states of decline. Paper and unlit candles fell around his sobbing form like leaves in the fall, but he paid them no heed. Indeed, when a rather hefty candelabra chose that moment to lose equillibrium, landing heavily on the Phantom's face, he barely cried out, and made no effort to move it.

"Christine..."

* * *

An hour later, he'd decided. Tonight was the last night of the rest of his life. His cloak hung about his broad shoulders in a familiar way, his mask clung comfortably to the side of his face, his wig lay in place for the last time. Tonight it all ended.

But not without certain...arrangements. The Phantom knew, through and through, that he could never find someone to love him; the doors to a woman's heart were closed to him forever. This thought pained him, but it made his concession easier. He could never have emotional love...but for a price he could buy a more physical love. It wasn't as if he needed the money, after tonight. He could afford to pay handsomely. As he would no doubt have to do, for his face was not half so handsome as his wallet-book.

Thus endowed with conviction, mask, and money, the Phantom ventured out into Paris.

* * *

He could afford the best, he knew. The Moulin Rouge, if he wanted. There were no limits placed on him...but he could not bring himself to immerse himself in the glitzy throng of somewhere like that. Despite his desire for the best that money could buy...his instincts begged him to choose someplace more private.

But where? He'd never attempted a night out before, and hardly knew the best places to go. In desperation not to have his final plan fail, like so many of his others, he chose randomly from the series of merry-looking establishments on the street. He stepped in through the door and, to his pleasure, hardly anyone even looked up. He stood still for a moment, unsure of what to do. Was he to be seated? Was he to seat himself? Should he remove the hood that shrouded his face in darkness? Was he allowed to let it remain? Did going out for a drink or a bite to eat always present such a dilemma? If so, why would anyone bother?

Before he could make a bewildered movement, a busty young blonde...well, bustled up to him and led him kindly, if absently, to an empty table. She didn't say a thing about his hood, so he felt it safe to assume that it was fine where it was. This relieved him...he didn't want to risk being identified.

"Someone will be with you in a moment," the girl said, smiling at him in a way that made his pathetic stomach flip. If she only knew what she was smiling at...

In a moment, she was gone, but her face lingered with him. She seemed almost familiar to him, but he could not quite place her features to a name. He shook his head; it was highly unlikely he would know a serving wench of a pub he never frequented. In front of him there was a drink. How on earth had that gotten there? He looked up suspiciously, and another woman was standing beside him, with a slightly less wholesome smile than the blonde. Having a different woman present every time he glanced up was a rather new experience for him, and he was slightly unnerved.

"Evenin', stranger," she said, shifting her weight to her other hip, "Anything else I can get you?"

The Phantom looked at the mug before him. Amber liquid with a fluffy white head on it was still sloshing around the inside. Beer. He'd never had the stuff. Well, he thought to himself, taking the handle into his cold fingers, might as well try once before you die. He took a drink, and expelled it violently just afterwards; it was disgusting! This display caused quite a few heads to turn, and a round of laughter to start up. His face burned crimson in the privacy of his hood, and he rounded angrily on his serving-girl. Laughter, shock, and apology were all fighting for supremacy in her expression.

"Take this away," he ordered gruffly, shoving the glass to the edge of the table, causing even more of the foul liquid to spill out onto the floor, "I'll have a glass of champange, if you would."

"Nothin' to eat?" the woman asked, still trying to contain her giggling.

"No," The Phantom scoffed, "No food. Just champange."

"Well, then. Any preferences?" she asked, brushing her hair behind her ears and regaining some composure.

He exasperatedly pressed a few notes into the wench's hand, eager to gain some privacy, "The best. I trust in your taste." And with that, the woman went scampering off. The Phantom heaved a great sigh. He'd been around people for barely ten minutes and all ready he wished he was alone again.

Beer. What sorts of common, foul creatures were men, that they could drink the stuff? It had no style, no class, no dignity of any kind. It was merely the poor man's bridge to inebriation. Horrid.

His thoughts were interrupted by a lady's backside passing close beneath his face. He looked up with vague disgust until he saw that it was the little blonde, again. He cleared his throat, intending to speak to her - for it was her that he had decided on, this night - and at the sound, she hurriedly turned. She immediately backed away, blushing.

"I'm so sorry, Monsieur," she said quickly, in a voice so mortified it was almost a whisper, "I didn't mean to offend, I didn't see where I was - "

He waved a silencing hand, and the girl's mouth shut immediately. What a sweet, obedient young woman! A smile, invisible to the girl, spread itself unconsciously across his mouth, though its smirking tone carried into the words he next spoke. "You're a sweet girl," he said, reciting the lines that he'd been rehearsing all night and hoping it was the correct thing to say, "Might I request your company tonight? I assure you, I can make it worth your while."

The blush deepened, and her blonde eyebrows furrowed. The apologetic, rueful smile that had been on her lips only moments before was suddenly gone, and he could have sworn he saw her eyes roll.

"No, _Monsieur_," she said, with a politeness so sharp that it cut straight to the Phantom's dying heart, "I am not interested in company of your sort." And she was gone, to that nameless void where serving-girls disappear to when they are not at your table-side. And just then, he realised why she seemed so familiar. That must have been Mme. Giry's little daughter, Meg. Well, that would explain her reaction; Meg was a good girl, kept on a tight leash by her formidable mother. She was the little girl who'd taken his mask. Well, she could keep it, now...and much good may it do her.

Still, he was so disheartened by her whole-hearted rejection that the Phantom made no effort to drink the champagne he'd so fastidiously requested, when it arrived. She'd smiled at him, she'd blushed for him...and he'd ruined that. Well, he thought to himself, he'd have felt bad, anyway, forcing his monstrosity on that innocent young woman. Perhaps it wasn't to be. Perhaps he was simply meant to die, never knowing love in that basest, carnal sense...

"You look lonely."

The words shot through the Phantom's unhappy musings, and his head shot up. The third female of the night stood before him, her long red hair hanging straight down past her pale shoulders. She was thin as a maypole, with a handsome, if not beautiful, face that was sprinkled with freckles so densely that it looked as if she'd been sprinkled with chocolate powder. Her breasts, such as they were, were pushed violently up into small, aesthetically pleasing half-spheres by her tight bodice, and her legs were half-bared by her bound-up skirts.

"Ah," he said, offering her a half-hearted smile, "As a matter of fact, I...Well, take a seat." He gestured to the empty seat on the other half of the booth, and the prostitute (for he now knew her to be that) accepted his offer graciously, sitting down and leaning forward licentiously, exposing even more of her less-than-ample cleavage.

There was a moment of awkward silence, before the woman before him smiled, as if remembering herself, and spoke. "My name is Genvieve."

"A lovely name," the Phantom responded, and said no more. The silence accosted them again.

"Aren't you going to tell me your name?" the prostitute prompted, with an encouraging smile. How old was she? Barely more than twenty, by the looks of her. The Phantom shook his head.

"No," he said, simply. Strange, he thought, for he'd always assumed that acquiring a lady of easy virtue was a quick, silent task. He didn't know you had to talk to them first. Well, he thought, he'd might as well make it easy. He took his as-yet-untouched champagne glass, and downed it as if it were vulgar whiskey. Then he immediately called the waitress over and ordered drinks for the both of them.


	2. Genvieve

* * *

Chapter 2: Genvieve

* * *

They weren't roaring drunk, not really. They were softly mewling drunk, perhaps. Like a kitten in the rain. Genvieve was laughing rather a lot, even though the Phantom was certain he wasn't making that many jokes. Perhaps his genius extended to that of humour, he thought. Perhaps he was funny without even noticing.

"Come upstairs with me," the girl said suddenly, leaning forward across the table with an impetuous grin, "Come and make love to me."

The Phantom's heart skipped, and blood began to rush to both his face and other areas, slightly further down. His breath caught in his throat, like Genvieve's hand caught at his wrist, as she pulled him up out of his seat. He followed her willingly, almost eagerly, and before he could stop them, optimistic thoughts crept into his slippery mind. Perhaps she could love him, he thought. Perhaps he needn't die tonight, he thought. Perhaps this laughter-rich young woman could accept him, offer him a new chance at existing, he thought. Perhaps she had a fondness of music, he thought.

The door shut the two of them into a small room, and Genvieve stood back a little, shyness showing in every muscle in her body. Part of him registered that she couldn't have been in this profession long; she showed no signs of the detatched air toward sex that he'd seen in so many of the easy girls in the Opera. She took a few steps forward, her lips half-puckered, half-smiling, and she reached up to pull back his hood, which had remained firmly in place the entire night.

"Wait," he said suddenly, staying her hands on the thick black fabric, and slowly removing them, cradling their soft, pale smallness in the safety of his own, leather-gloved hands. "Genvieve," he began, using her name for the first time, "Do you have any love for music?"

Her green eyes averted, as a shy smile overtook her features. "Yes, Monsieur, of course. I love to go to church of Sundays and listen to the choir."

"Would...would you like me to sing for you?" he asked, quietly, almost reluctantly. But, he reminded himself, you might as well. You die before dawn. Unless...

She nodded silently, and the Phantom began to hum, quietly, gradually building up into song. He sang of hope, a song woven of dreams and fears and love unreturned. The words were meaningless, they were but the wheels that conveyed this immense feeling, and the girl that stood before him was entranced. Crystal tears fled her emerald eyes, chasing down her cheeks, washing away the powder that desperately tried to cover her freckles. Her hands stroked the Phantom's own, and as he sang he gently, gently brought them up to his hood and let them go.

Taking his meaning, and wafting through a gentle sea of emotion, she pulled the hood away from his face, and in such a state of ecstasy was she that she barely noticed the white porcelain mask that covered half his face. She reached up to stroke his flesh, his hair, to bend his head down and kiss him tenderly on the cheek.

At the sensation of her lips on his skin, the Phantom's voice broke and failed, and for the first time, Genvieve noticed the tears running down his face. For the first time, she noticed the mask. It seemed to break through the spell of enchantment that was upon her, and coy curiosity brought a smile to her lips.

"Remove one mask to find another," she said, and her tone sent a thrill of warning, less welcome than a mob of angry villagers and more painful than any physical wound, through the Phantom's body.

"Nevermind the mask," he said gruffly, almost desperately, as he reached for the young girl's face. The hopes that the alcohol had allowed him to build, the cloud castles of dreams of love that had been erected in his mind, began to dissolve in the cold acidic wind of reality. "Don't think of it," he said, and turned her face away from it, bending to claim her lips with his own aching mouth. But her eyes stayed on the cold frown of the half-mask, and even as the Phantom kissed her, her hands were travelling away from his shoulders to remove it.

He jerked away before she could do any harm, breaking off the emotionless kiss. "Don't touch it!" he snapped, feeling foreboding build a painful pressure in his heart. Of course she would never be able to accept him. To respect his mask, his privacy. No one ever could. She could offer him nothing, nothing at all. Her boyish but attractive features, which he had been learning to find endearing, her playful smile and enchanting eyes, now seemed to lose all their lustre. The desperate love that champagne had been fostering for her was now crushed in the coldness of sudden sobriety. Now she was nothing more than a child to him, a skinny stick of an urchin, whose dirty hands reached out to expose his ugliness.

"I only want to look," she laughed, and instead of musical tinkling that set his heart to flight, it was coarse, common. She thought this all a game, and fought against his defensive arms to reach his face. Firmly, he grasped her wrists until she cried out in pain, and growled at her.

"I mean it. Do not touch the mask!"

Her emerald eyes began to fill again with tears, and she stood stock-still in the Phantom's grasp. He softened his hold on her, and his expression, as well. The magic that had drawn him to her was gone, the haze around the edges of his vision, that had made their encounter so dreamlike, had disappated...but he didn't want it to. He desperately wished that it would come back, his heart yearned for that moment, so like elysium, that fooled him into thinking that they were two young lovers, playful and caring, lustful for one another. He smiled at her, trying hard to tear down the protective walls that kept him detached from her.

She was so lovely, he told himself, his lovely Genvieve. She could save him, he told himself. Save him from death tonight, and from loneliness for the rest of his life. She could, she had to! Inwardly, he struck himself, when he found that his skeptical mind would not accept these thoughts. Well, he would force himself to believe it!

The girl's tears had fallen, and showed no signs of renewing themselves. She looked up at him with an expression of deepest concern, as if worried about his mental well-being. He forced a smile, to reassure her, and it was so dazzling, so charming, that he saw one on her face mirror it immediately. He bent down to kiss her again, slowly, and he saw her eyes shut in happy complacence just before his own eyes closed. Their lips missed, him hitting her nose and she his chin, but they laughed it off, and they did not miss the second time.

The Phantom's stomach did a flip, and his heart beat quickly in his chest, as Genvieve's arms wrapped around his shoulders and she pulled herself up into his embrace, conforming to his body as well as her thin form would allow. He felt her upper pelvis rub up against his groin, and he moaned suddenly into her mouth, causing her a small gasp of pleasure. Suddenly she was backed against the wall, with his mouth ravaging her own and his hips grinding against hers.

With every moan she gave, the Phantom's lust increased, until he was sure he would burst before they could even manage to undress. His face brushed against the fragrant skin of Genvieve's neck as he kissed and nipped at it. He ran his tongue inexpertly along her earlobe, and the sigh of ecstasy that escaped the girl's mouth was heavenly.

"I want you," he whispered huskily, "More than I've ever wanted anything."

This time her gasp was vocal, and the exhaling breath came out as a staccato, flattered laugh. She reached up to stroke his face, to guide his mouth to hers, and she kissed him passionately. Never before had she known a client with such vigour, such emotion. She hadn't had many, but this man was special, she knew. Kind, funny, smart, handsome, and almost certainly rich, judging from his attire. As a matter of fact, Genvieve was not at all certain that she was not falling in love with this beautiful stranger with a touch of silk and voice like an angel.

But there remained the mystery of the mask. After all, if she was going to give herself to this man, heart as well as body, she would have to know what lay beneath it. And so, with quiet, loving laughter between their lustful kisses, she quickly prised the white article from the Phantom's face.

* * *

There had been screaming, male and female. Scuffling, said the occupants downstairs. Some muffled shouting, and the sickening sound of glass breaking. Then, a sharp, shrill scream that cut off half-way. By the time anyone had rushed to the room, young Genvieve was lying on the floor, her neck at an unnatural angle, a trickle of blood dripping from her slack mouth. The window was broken, but even a thorough look outside revealed no one.

There was no hint of the murderer, though it was later said that there were smooth, white shatter-shards on the cobblestones outside the inn.


	3. Little Meg

* * *

Chapter 3: Little Meg

* * *

Walking home in the dark had never bothered Meg. She'd worked late at the pub, trying to avoid the lewd and lecherous stares from the drunken bastards that populated the place. They disgusted her. Many tried to win her favour, or at least her favours. Occasionally they would offer her money in exchange for what they called a "small service," which Meg was happy to vehemently decline. Her mother had worked hard to protect her daughter's virtue, and Meg saw no reason to throw that all away for a few francs.

Her shortcut home went through an alley or two, wide and decently well-lit, not a terrible danger for an unarmed teenage girl, and the walk was not long. Meg was slightly uneasy, however, for there was a murderer on the loose. She'd been finishing up her duties when it had happened, when she'd heard the screaming, the crash, the fight. She'd rushed up the stairs, but been detained by someone who had gotten there first.

"Paolo, let me through," she'd insisted, fighting against the landlord's thick arms, "Is everyone all right?"

"Mam'selle Giry, please," the brawny Spaniard had insisted, forcing the young girl back down the stairs, along with several other curious waitresses, "Mam'selles Harbois, Renchant, please go back down stairs. It is no sight for such young girls."

"But what has happened?" one asked. This was picked up in a chorus of female assent, until Paolo was forced to wave his hands in defeat.

"It is..." he sighed, reticent to reveal the terrible news to them, "Murder. Young Genvieve has been killed, her neck broken."

A collective gasp had emitted from the waitstaff, and Meg had actually screamed, her hand rising to her mouth in alarm. Fear immediately filled the eyes of the impressionable and even the more seasoned serving-women, and Paolo put his hands on his hips.

"There," he said, "Now perhaps you wish you had not asked. All of you go home, in pairs, if you can. Be very careful, the perpetrator has not been caught. All we know is that he is wearing a black cloak. You will not see his face."

No one was going the same way as Meg. Gabrielle had come with her as far as she could, but then the two of them had to go their separate ways. And so it was with trepidation that Meg walked her normal path home. The path that had gotten her mother's approval in safety, the path that was the reason Mme. Giry no longer came to walk her daughter home.

Little Meg tried not to shiver, and began to hum a little part from one of the old operas, gently to herself, to keep her courage strong (insofar as it was).

* * *

The darkness enveloped the pitiable figure leaning against the wall. It was not visible in the pitch, but his gloved hand clutched at the velvet fabric of his vest, just above his heart. The most unhappy sobs echoed in the cobbled alleyway, and a shushing noise was heard as the figure slumped to the ground in a pool of miserable velvet, silk, and tears.

Fingers clutched at the black wig atop his head, and he threw it to the ground in fury, pounding it with his fists repeatedly as if trying to beat the life out of an all ready lifeless thing.

The Phantom's heart was rent, his hopes shattered. He had been wrong to trust again, to trust in the first place. He had allowed himself to be pulled into the deception that anyone could ever understand, could ever accept, could ever love. He'd fooled himself into believing that Genvieve loved him, indeed, that he loved her. But why?

...Because he didn't want to die. It had hit him with sickening accuracy. He didn't want to live, not without love...but he didn't want to die without it, either. All the night had been an exersize, to try and find love, of a sort, as quickly as possible, to ensure that he could not commit the stupidity he longed for. It had all been an attempt to stay alive. To gain some happiness that might make his life liveable.

But the vacant look in Genvieve's eyes as her head twisted violently to the left, her precious cheeks held between his uncaring hands, would haunt him for some time. The mask was gone - shattered in the back alley behind the pub. He'd run, jumped out of the second-storey window and flown, figuratively, to safety, before the door had been broken open. Before anyone could discover his great shame.

How could he bear to take the life of a comparatively innocent girl barely half his age, when he hadn't the courage to end his own? To end the life of a murderer, a monster, a horror that should not even have been born? He did not deserve to live, and yet...and yet...He could not bring himself to die. His heart ached with the guilt, the shame, the anguish...but he could not put an end to it. He was useless, a failure.

As he half-lay in that alley, still drunk with the champagne and with the terrible, fearful adrenaline of the kill, he was surprised to find his thoughts straying to the Giry girl. He'd been prepared to let her keep the mask, being sure that he would have no need of it. After all, he had another, and by the end of the night, he'd intended not to need a mask, what-so-ever, ever again. But now that he had come to terms with his own reluctant vitality, and that his spare mask had been smashed, he would need another. He would need it back.

His head, lolling against the ancient brick of the wall behind him, perked up at the unmistakeable sound of Marguerite's part in Faust, in the second act. Hidden safely in the shadows, the Phantom peered out into the alleyway. To his ironic surprise, he saw a blonde head walking past, uneasy on white shoulders, glancing shiftily around and humming to herself.

No smile graced the mouth of the unmasked Phantom, as he slowly gathered his wits about himself. No doubt she would not have the mask on her, why would she? But he could make her bring it to him. He stood, brushed some dirt from his velvet cloak, and pulled his hood up once more to hide his deformity. Then he stepped out into the blinding light of the street lamp.

* * *

Meg screamed as the Phantom stepped out before her, and she turned to run, before finding that there was nowhere to go. She turned back to the figure in fear, cowering and with tears threatening to fall without warning. He was tall, she remembered, and very dark, and though it was surely just his cloak, all of him seemed to billow like some terrible Gothic angel, his face hidden in shadow.

"Give it back." His voice was deep and gruff, with a hint of impatience, as of a man who has been woken too early.

"G-give what back?" she asked tremulously, her voice crackling with fear, "Who are you?"

"You took my mask from me," he boomed, taking an authoritative step forward, causing Meg to squeak in terror and back up further. "You must give it back!"

"I don't have it," she managed to choke out, tears running down either side of her round face.

"Give it back!" he demanded again, his tone heightening in his ire. His arm seemed to be reaching for his hip, and in Meg's mind, he grasped the hilt of a sword with a skull motif.

"It's not here!" Meg insisted, her voice breaking, and a sob escaping her mouth as her hands groped furiously at the brick wall behind her for some avenue of escape, "Please! I don't have it with me!"

A black hand shot forth, and she heard the creak of the leather gloves as his fingers tightened around her throat. Her own hands came up to beseech him to let go, but he wasn't exactly choking her...not yet. "You will bring it to me, then," the Phantom hissed, and Meg was immobilized beyond speech, or even a simple nod. But that would not be a problem. He knew she would deliver. He released her, and as she took a step away from her assaultor, she bumped into a trash bin. She turned behind her, startled, emitting a small scream of surprise and fear. When she looked back up, he was gone.

Meg ran the rest of the way home, in tears, and did not even begin to relax until she was underneath the quilt on her bed.

* * *

All that had been nearly a week ago. Since then, Meg had gathered rather more courage, and had finally felt ready to return the mask to its rightful owner. She'd snuck out the back of her house, without a word to her mother. In retrospect, she realised, she ought to have mentioned her excursion. For now, no one knew where she was. If the Phantom decided her existence no longer pleased him, no one would know where to look for her. And no one could hear her scream, beneath the Opera House.

The staircase seemed to go on forever, down here. Through the corridors in the distance, Meg could almost make out the shape of the Opera's mighty furnaces, now dormant and cold. There was a discomfiting breeze that caused the hangings on the wall to flap, threatening to strike Meg and knock her over the edge of the crumbling bannister, which would surely mean her death.

Reaching a platform, Meg was forced to rapidly avoid an open trap-door that she'd almost not seen in time. Beneath it was an iron grate, and beneath that, some murky green water than looked uncomfortably deep. Meg shivered slightly and side-stepped the hole carefully. From then on, she chose to walk to the side of the staircase, by the wall, all the while remembering to keep her hand at the level of her eyes, as if holding a pistol, ready to fire.

* * *

Where was she? It had been nearly a week, and the Phantom was beginning to get impatient. There was no way she could disobey him, he knew this. He was not fond of the fact, but being so long with the gypsies, with his horrible "manager," Javert, had taught him how to command respect and obedience from any human being, as though they were no more than a trained dog. And of course, he had no doubt in his skills...

But it had been nearly a week. He scoffed, irritably, and lit another candle atop his organ. He hated the necessity of the light, but he couldn't write without it. He'd immersed himself in impregnable blackness for nearly the whole week, and had preferred it that way. Christine's face, echoed in his many sketches, could not beseech him in the darkness; could not beg him not to forget her, not to stop loving her.

The light only served to remind him of the life he would never have, of the sun he would never see. It depressed him, just as his beloved darkness depressed that majority of life that lived above the surface of the earth.

But while he could see in the dark and play in the dark, he found it impossible to write in the dark, and because of this, he lit a few candles. But then he thought; the girl will not be able to see. She could do considerable damage to the valuable clutter that lay strewn about his working rooms. So he lit a few more. And then he thought, damn it to hell, I'll light them all.

The sound of a startled scream roused the Phantom from his work. She must be just outside, he thought. He wandered over to pull the lever that would open the secret door to his lair, before seating himself again at his instrument, as if he were not expecting the girl.

* * *

A portcullis in front of Meg raised before she even had a moment to wonder how to circumvent this dead end. Slighty alarmed, she used her staff to punt herself forward, through the sudden opening, and the first thought that ran through her head was how bright it was, down here. There were hundreds of candles, all about her, illuminating all but the farthest walls. There was a grandiose organ, she thought she saw, and even as she gazed, an incredibly loud chord emenated from it. She cried out, and her flinch rocked the boat to and fro. She was forced to steady the boat with her hands and dancer's thighs before continuing.

"So you did come. I wondered if you might," the Phantom's voice carried across the lake as majestically as his organ music did. Though his voice was elegant and collected, now, as opposed to the breaking mess it had been during the confrontation in the alley, Meg was not reassured.

She couldn't see him, didn't know where he was, but she fought her hand's impulse to rise to her forehead, and struggled with her fear. As her boat nudged the rocky shore like an affectionate pet, she unsteadily stood and deboarded.

"I came, yes," she answered, and pulled the requested item from a fold in her skirt, "I brought it."

"Very good," and now the hint of a moving figure, slipping from shadow to shadow without ever quite emerging into the light, "Bring it to me, Meg."

Meg did not ask how he knew her name. After all, she knew his, which made her one of a very few. She doubted even beautiful, perfect Christine knew his name. She stepped forward, her blonde hair glinting dully in the dancing, multifaceted lightsource. She approached the Phantom's shadow and, fearful but unblinking, held forth the pearly-white accessory. A hand, clad in a colour as dark as the pitch it hid in, moved forward with the alacrity of a snake striking, and snatched the mask from her. She resisted the impulse to shriek. You are not afraid, she told herself.

"That is all I require. Now leave me."

Perhaps a little afraid. This was what Meg had been dreading. She feared turning her back on him more than she feared facing him...She imagined what it would be like to turn, begin to walk away, and suddenly feel hempen death tighten around your neck, as you suddenly realised why it was so important to keep your hand at eye level...

"I said leave me. Let me alone!" This time, his voice was almost pleading, threatening to break in its anger and sincerity. Slowly, and with the certainty that she would regret doing so, she turned away from the shadowy Phantom, and took a hesitant few steps toward the boat.

Her every muscle was strung more tightly than violin strings on opening night, and as her feet absently turned outward while she walked, keeping her inner thigh muscles taut, as she'd been taught to do all her years in the opera, she tensed herself to fight for her life. One step, then another, slowly inching closer to the boat...to her freedom. Hopefully. A sudden voice out of what seemed an immeasurable silence starled Meg to a scream.

"Tell no one what you have seen!"

"Never!" she replied, too quickly, "I...wouldn't dream of it," she said to the empty air before her. And she wouldn't. People were all ready saying that the Opera Ghost was little more than superstition, that there was no candlelit cavern beneath the ruined Opera Populaire. She'd been shocked; less than four months ago she had come down here with almost fifteen men, and now every single one of them was denying what they'd seen with their own eyes. It was unbelievable, but then again...so was the Opera Ghost. If she told anyone what had happened, they would call her mad.

Her feet suddenly found the edge of the outcrop where the boat was resting, untied but seemingly unwilling to move unless someone made it. Well, Meg was definitely prepared to make it. She lowered herself gently into its rocking interior, clutching at the sides as it regained equillibrium in the water. Then, with a slowness that almost gave an air of reluctance, she lifted the punting staff and placed the end in the water. One push, and the boat sailed easily toward the opened portcullis. The candles drifted past as Meg continued her journey toward the exit, her mind refusing to think about the situation at hand. If she let herself think, she might become too terrified to move.

A clank, and a horrible grinding, metallic noise was suddenly heard, and Meg screamed in sobbing terror as the portcullis, with its fetid garlands of dead or dying seaweed, came crashing, splashing down barely a foot from the bow of her dinghy. She turned around in the boat, her flexible form twisting with ease at the waist, her hand seeming to pull off a sloppy salute as it flew instinctively to eye level.

On the igneous beach, a creature, lit now by the sickly light of a thousand miniature torches, but still dark as the black hole he employed as a heart, stepped forward. His white mask - that gleamed like porcelain but was stronger than iron - now occupied the right half of his face, and Meg was struck not by the fear that she had come to know, but by his regal bearing. Behind him, crimson curtains lifted up to the ceiling, harboring small shards of broken mirror, and the effect was such that he appeared to have great, feathered wings, dyed red with the blood of his victims, and glittering with the stars collected from his admirer's eyes. Something inside Meg moved, and suddenly she was acutely aware that immediately assuming this man was going to kill her might be deemed offensive. Her hand quickly fetched to her hair, patting it back into place as if that was its intention, all along.

A low chuckle echoed about the place, throwing itself off of stalactites, off of the volcanic-seeming stalagmites that rose unabashedly from the murky water, rattling inside Meg's ears. And then, the voice again, with its cool composure, its pleasing tenor.

"Do you sing, young Giry?"


	4. The Music

* * *

Chapter 4: The Music

* * *

Meg could sing, and did. She'd not had any real training, being little more than a glorified chorus girl, but the raw ore of talent was there, and the Phantom possessed the means to transform it into the diamond it could become. With each scale, progressing upwards, the Phantom could feel in his heart the blade-winged phoenix of elation rising within him, dragging his heart upward into the rafters, the clouds, the heavens.

It had been so quiet, lately. No rehearsals, no performances, no singing, no humming, no chatter, not even whistling on the stage (a heinous faux pas at the opera). He'd been able to create his own music, of course, and he was thankful for that...but most often he preferred to listen. And now here she was...she was not Christine, and in his heart of hearts he could not lie to himself and pretend that she was...but she did posess talent, and in her young face was set the love of music that he, himself, saw in the mirror every day. Or would, if he had any mirrors left to look into, or any desire to look into them.

His fingers found the keys easily, by second, or perhaps by first, nature, and the organ obediently bellowed out the notes he'd chosen, grasping Meg's voice and pulling it upward, upward like the spiral of ecstatic energy that rose within the two people present. It seemed as if it was no longer just them singing, playing...a heartsong cried out into the darkness, of broken dreams and sunken hopes, of love unrequited and consequently dashed...and then, of those things refreshed and renewed, and a pregnant breath caught in the Phantom's chest...

Then, suddenly, as of an embracing couple rapidly realising they are being watched, the music and Meg's voice broke off, and there was the hint of an echo reverberating around the suddenly silent cave. The Phantom could feel Meg's blush, though he was not facing her.

"Good," he said, simply, willing his voice not to break with the tears that threatened to breach his defenses, "And now go."

He heard no footsteps, and he took a deep sigh to dispell the heartache long enough to speak again. "Are you deaf, girl? I said go."

Again, there was no movement from the mesmerized girl behind him. With a fluid movement, he turned his swivelling seat, and stood towering over the young ex-ballerina. "Go!" he cried, his hands coming up instinctively in a gesture of irritation. For only the tiniest of split seconds, he was afraid she would stay put, but with a choked cry she turned, quickly, letting the glass thread of Music between them fall to the ground and shatter, and leapt into the boat. She did not look back at him as she steered her way out of the cave, and therefore he did not see his tears mirrored in her eyes.

Confused and upset, the Phantom turned to his organ, lifted a piece of blank sheet music, and began to write down his feelings, in a series of obscure circles and swoops.

* * *

The letter folded under the pressure Meg's fingers placed on it. It crumpled into an approximate ball, and landed in her wastepaper basket. She looked at the letter that had inspired her to write, its neat, feminine handwriting drawing her gaze.

'Dearest Meg,

'I hope this finds you well. Raoul and I miss you so, do come visit soon! It really is very lovely out here, I think perhaps I shall arrange for you to visit in June. Do you think that would be all right? I really would like to see some of my old friends at the Opera. Have you seen Gerald or anyone lately? Give them my love if you do.'

There was some more of her cheerful writing, wishing Meg's family the best and asking if she was doing all right, financially. Questions about the weather. The usual. But then, near the end of the page...

'You did take my advice, didn't you? About the Angel? I would hate to think that you'd endangered yourself. Remember, he kills without feeling, without even thinking. No matter what you might want to think, you must remember that! That cannot be forgiven. I worry about you, Meg...Please write me quickly and reassure me, before I get too foolishly concerned.'

Meg broke off reading, and stood up from her desk. Her candle was nearly burnt down...she'd need a new one. Christine's letter lay, open and unanswered, amongst the debris. On each end was a pink ballet slipper, keeping it from folding up, the last remnants of Meg's ballet career. Well...almost.

The young girl reached down for her walking shoes and slipped them on. She had to go back. She wasn't sure why...but she had to. There had been something there, something between them. Something powerful, and Meg found herself unable to ignore it. There was a swish of fabric as Meg's cloak hugged her shoulders and fastened at her neck. She looked at herself in the mirror, squared her shoulders, and headed out of her room.

"Meg, where are you going at this hour?" Her mother was sitting in the living room, knitting needles in her thin hands, casting Meg an inquisitive look.

"Out. I feel like a walk. I may be back late," She replied, inwardly cringing. Her mother, who had insisted on walking her home every night from work; who barely let Meg breathe without exact instruction, was not likely to go along with her plan. Somehow, Meg suspected that her mother knew exactly where she was going, and why, despite the fact that she had never even divulged to her mother the continued vitality of the Phantom.

"Meg, it's too late, you are too young to be out at this time. Stay home." Madame Giry's voice was not one that was used to being disobeyed. There was no question in her tone that every syllable would be followed to the letter. The ballerina in Meg blanched, but the girl in her stood defiant.

"Mother, I just want a walk. I'll be fine. I'll be back before morning."

"Meg - "

The door shut. Young girls, of course, were not supposed to wander around Paris unaccompanied, especially at night. It was practically illegal, but Madame Giry was unworried, if not a little frustrated at her daughter's insistence. She sighed, with half a smile, and began a new row in her knitting.

* * *

Meg's mind had been wandering the entire time, as her feet took her instinctively to the Opera Populaire. She thought of Christine, her best friend in all the world, her surrogate sister. She loved Christine, of course she did, there was no question that it was so...and yet...yet Meg resented her.

She'd been happy for Christine when the Phantom had chosen her for training. She'd suspected her mother had suggested it to him, somehow, and it was that that Meg resented. She'd been happy for Christine when she'd gotten the lead. But her mother had suggested Christine, not Meg, and it was that that she resented. And while she could not blame her mother for Raoul's affection for Christine, she couldn't deny that she resented her friend for that, too. Meg didn't like to say, but she'd rather fancied the man, herself. But she wouldn't have dreamed of telling that to Christine, whose heart was set on winning back the man that she'd spent a summer with when she was barely seven.

Meg was torn between her good nature; her love for her friend, and the fact that she always seemed to come in second, when running against Christine. Even to her own mother, it seemed. Of course she loved Christine...but...

The stench of the standing water, of the many drowned rats, hit Meg's olfactory system like a flaming chandelier, completely derailing her unpleasant train of thought. She was almost glad for the interruption, for no matter how foul the smell, it could not be worse than the taste that her dreary thoughts had left in her mouth. It was now, as she made her way down the stinking tunnels, that she began to question her actions.

Was it really wise to try her luck like this? She was walking into the lair of a known murderer, after she had specifically been ordered to leave. She'd been in once before, and was lucky to have escaped with her life. Why on God's green Earth would she come back? These thoughts permeated her fearful mind, and her feet slowly stopped. She should just go home to her warm bed, to her mother, to her normal life. She knew that, if she came back now, her life would never be the same, if indeed it even continued.

She shook her head and turned to go, but at that moment, she could have sworn she heard something. Music. But not just organ music...there was something else there, something beautiful. Singing; a voice so perfectly pitched, so incredibly feeling, was dancing along to the eerie music. It was like a siren song, if sirens were male, and Meg found her feet being dragged inexorably forward. She suddenly felt compelled to run to the voice, to embrace it, to let it embrace her. She had to go to it!

In her trance-like state, and haste to get to the source of the voice before it ended, she nearly missed the boat and fell into the lake, but it seemed almost as if the transport darted to the side to catch the swooning Meg, and she landed safely, if slightly uncomfortably, in the dinghy. She took up the punting staff with trembling fingers and pushed the boat forward, forward, as the voice got louder and louder with proximity. She had to go to it!

* * *

Outside the Phantom's lair, the music seemed to suddenly fade away. Meg flung her arms out, reaching desperately with her hands to grasp the escaping strains of intangible music, and she cried out, wordlessly and animally begging the sound, the voice, not to go.

"Please!" she shouted, inarticulately, as her heart sank rapidly into the cold sea of reality. Only then did fear again grasp her. What music had she heard? Whose voice had sung to her, so obviously, intimately serenaded her? What sound had she followed, into this darkness? A siren-song indeed! And she had fallen prey, had doomed herself to the limited mercy of this Ghost, this monster. She cursed herself, mentally, and then thought only of escape. She put down the staff into the water and began to push away from the wall. Again and again she pushed, but she was fighting a current that was suddenly swiftly flowing against her.

"No!" she cried out, stabbing the staff into the rock at the bottom of the pool desperately, and hearing a muffled snap. The broken stick fell from her fingers as she grabbed for the sides of the boat to avoid being thrown off in the sudden jerk. The boat hit the wall of the portcullis with sickening speed, and Meg screamed as she was bumped into the stone wall violently.

Suddenly, the wall lifted, gave way, and Meg went spinning into the placid lake of the Phantom's home like a leaf on a rapid river, trying desperately not to scream, or retch. It was dark inside, with the exception of a few candles atop the organ. They seemed impossibly bright, though they illuminated only a very small amount of the darkness, and a lot of that was obscured by the black silhouette of a man, seated at the instrument. He was playing, now, though Meg did not recognise the tune. The same couple of bars repeated over a few times, and an irritated noise issued from his throat. So engrossed in his music was he, that he seemed not to notice as Meg stepped woozily onto the shore and fell to her knees.

After a moment of holding her temples firmly in either hand and pushing on them, to steady herself, Meg gathered the strength to stand, and approached the Phantom, cautiously, in the demi-darkness.

With each step, she moved more and more slowly, as though wading through molasses. Seeing the Phantom's form before her, now, made her heart begin to pound in her ears, beating a tattoo against the intrusive organ melody. Not for the first time, but too late, the appropriate fear seized upon her. Her breath hastened in her chest, and seemed strangely audible, though it was surely drowned out by the Phantom's music.

His hand darted out in front of him to scribble down on parchment the music flowing from his fingers, while his other hand seemed intent on playing. Then he returned to his keys, patching together a quilt of Music, each piece hauntingly beautiful. Though her fear was not forgotten, Meg's skin began to gooseflesh. But still, the Phantom seemed displeased. Over and over, he played the last bar, ending it differently each time. Each time, Meg thought that it was perfect, but each time, it improved, somehow. Then, without warning, he cried out in frustration, and his arm swept all the candles off of the surface before him.

It was as if Meg had gone blind. With the exception of one or two will-o-the-wisp light spots dancing in front of her face, Meg could see absolutely nothing. Her fear morphed into absolute terror, and her hand immediately shot upward as if holding a pistol, and remained there. She backed away, each step uncertain, her breath deafening in the sudden silence. Where had he gone? There wasn't so much as a footstep to betray his presence, not a breath aside from her own.

There was a sudden pressure on her wrist, yanking it down from her face, and she cried out in fear and sudden pain. Then, a voice in her ear, behind her.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was gruff and angry, and Meg spun away from him with a quickness that was characteristic of her profession. As she backed away from the source of the sound, she came to realise that she didn't have an answer for him. Not really.

"I-" she choked out, and she could sense him advancing on her. As her eyes adjusted, she could almost see the white outline of his mask with each soundless step he took toward her. "I..."

"Why did you come back?"

Meg's mouth opened to answer him, but each reply that came to her lips was dumber than the last. To sing? To see you? Completely imbecilic! "I...don't know," she finished, lamely. "I...felt...like I should. Come back." She flinched. She felt that she should? Meg, gather yourself. If you're going to die, try to die as less of an idiot! "I heard music..."

"Music..." the voice repeated, like a thoughtful echo.

There was a pause. Then a flame pierced the darkness, illuminating the white leather exo-skull that covered a third of the Phantom's face. The candle, having shone its brightest in the excitement of being lit, now began to pace itself, burning moderately and shining unfondly on the Phantom. He stood before Meg, tall and somber. His hand came up, and Meg flinched...but it was holding a bundle of papers. Gingerly, Meg accepted them. She looked down at them, and the notes struck her as familiar. This had been the first piece she'd learned to sing since joining the chorus. She knew every part of every harmony, she could have sung it in her sleep.

"Do you know this?" he demanded of her, and the look on his face suggested that he was prepared to be extremely irritated at the first sign of a problem.

"Yes," she said, simply, though her mind added, "Like the back of my hand."

"Then sing."


	5. Lessons, and a Dismissal

* * *

Chapter 5: Lessons, and a Dismissal

* * *

Meg was an apt pupil, and the Phantom was inclined to liken her to a sponge. Each instruction he gave, she took immediately. It rather reminded him of his boyhood, though he begged it not to. She did not posess the same talent that Christine did...but she was a much faster learner. In a single night, he had managed to teach her what it had taken Christine nearly a week to learn. Whether she could ever become as good as Christine could have been remained to be seen...but it was worth the effort, either way.

"I think we are finished for tonight," the Phantom declared, as Meg's voice lost its struggle to reach a high note for the second time that evening. The girl looked as if she'd been struck, and she protested worriedly.

"No, no, it's all right. I can do it," she insisted strongly.

"Your voice is tired, Mam'selle. If we continue tonight, we could injure it," he said simply, dismissively.

"No, please! Don't send me away!" Such was the desperation in her tone, that the Phantom took pity on her. He reached his hand out to touch her shoulder, but then thought better of it, and pretended to be adjusting a nearby candle in its holder.

"I said tonight," he said, with emphasis, "You shall return tomorrow, and we will pick up where we left off, won't we?"

The Phantom was almost embarrassed by the sudden, unabashed smile that spread like wildfire across Meg's face and twinkled like sunshine. She nodded with almost tiring enthusiasm, and, swallowing to massage her poor throat, she curtseyed to him. He couldn't hold back a chuckle, and gave her half a bow from his sitting position.

"And now to bed, Mam'selle," he insisted calmly, as he watched the young blonde take up step toward the boat. She climbed into the small watercraft and sat down before her mouth opened into a disappointed moue.

"Oh...the staff. It's broken, how will I - ?" she asked, turning her head up to look at him with reproach in her eyes.

"Oh, I expect it knows its own way by now," the Phantom replied enigmatically, waving a hand at it. He rather delighted in the surprised gasp Meg gave when the boat launched of its own accord, sliding effortlessly across the surface of the lake.

"How - ?" she began, but he'd all ready turned his back and disappeared into the darkness. She laughed, slightly, and the sound echoed around the suddenly empty cavern. As the boat disappeared around the corner, a little voice called out, "Good night!"

It reached the Phantom's ears as he was emerging from the shadow, and he rather regretted having to send her away. With a sigh, he sat back down at the keyboard of his artistic medium, and retrieved the score he'd cast off in irritation. He looked down on it now with a smile, and against his will, a deeply satisfied feeling settled in just beneath his ribs.

As Meg reached the streets, far below her, the deep and feeling strains of organ music began to play, newly inspired.

* * *

She came back the next night, and the next. A week passed, and each night Meg would make her way to the Phantom's lair, and sing until her voice ran dry, until her shoulders sagged and her eyelids drooped, and then, exhausted, would drag herself home and sleep until late afternoon. Her mother was becoming quite irritated with her, though to Meg's surprise, had made no moves to stop her. Though Meg felt bad for upsetting her mother, she knew there was little choice in the matter. The lessons had to continue.

The Phantom was a patient, if strict, tutor. He never seemed quite pleased with her efforts; indeed, he barely showed emotion at all, unless you counted his boundless passion for aural sensation. He spoke of Music as a person, no, as a God. In its shadow, all humans were mortal, petty creatures, it seemed. He was very professional, and would speak of nothing else but the music; Meg's gentle inquiries went impolitely ignored, almost resented. Soon she learned to stop making them, and focused entirely on the task at hand.

* * *

The girl was shaping up nicely, and quickly, at that. The Phantom often mused that he probably could not have asked for a more open and obedient student. Meg was incredibly sensitive to his orders, very easily moulded by his suggestions, while at the same time being inventive in her own right, and unafraid to incorporate her own ideas. It was really a delight, and the Phantom found himself looking forward to each visit; more than he cared to admit. The company was a welcome interruption from the unbroken monotony of the darkness, especially since she'd stopped asking him questions. And she never showed any inclination to remove his mask, which relieved him greatly.

As a matter of fact, it was almost dismaying how much he came to look forward to the lessons, and because of this, he took great pains not to show any undue emotion, or any at all, for that matter. He'd learned, more than once, that allowing people to tell what you thought or how you felt could only lead to problems. He couldn't allow these lessons to turn into anything more. He couldn't allow himself to get attached.

But as he set about lighting the candles for the young girl's benefit, he knew that he was fighting a losing battle. When she was gone, he could still see her smile, the one that she'd given him in the pub, that seemed so long ago. He could still hear her voice when he played the music. He could still sense her warmth behind him when he went to his bed, solitary, and slept. He was attached more firmly than he would even dare to think.

And he knew he wouldn't be able to take it much longer. He would have to do something, and soon. Unfortunately for him, that most likely meant sending her away. For good. He could not risk another Christine. Not another, God forbid, Genvieve.

* * *

Meg hurried down the dank corridor. She'd left late, despite her best efforts, and she hoped he wouldn't be cross. Meg feared and respected the Phantom as a tutor, a genius, and a magician, but she was not yet sure she trusted him as a man. Christine's warning echoed in her head, and she remembered the fear her friend had felt, just thinking about him. She remembered Joseph's face, ruddy with bloodrush, as he dangled above the as-yet oblivious dance squad. She remembered the fire.

"I'm sorry," she called quietly, as she approached her dark teacher. He turned wordlessly in his chair, and held out a fresh sheaf of parchment. She took it, unthinkingly doing now what would before have caused great suspicion. The score was completely unfamiliar to her, though it was well-thumbed. As she rifled through it, it began to dawn on her. "This is new," she said, "You wrote this."

"I did. And you shall sing it, Mam'selle Giry. I thought perhaps we would begin with the refrain. Page three, measure twenty, and - " the music began to play, and Meg obediently began to sing the notes written on the page. But she'd barely gotten to the next measure before her mentor stopped the accompaniment and corrected her. She nodded, the music began, she sang. The music stopped, the Phantom corrected her again. She nodded. The music began.

Before the end of the night, Meg was in tears. No matter what she sang, it was incorrect. She was too loud, she was too quiet, she was too crisp, she was too slurred. She had too much vibrato, she had not enough. She could not get it right, not on this most important piece. The Phantom was always critical, of course, but ever the more so when it was his own music he felt Meg was butchering. Soon his chiding turned to near-shouting, and eventually Meg was reduced to her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking in frustration.

There was a pause, as he allowed her her tears. Had he done this to Christine, too? Meg could remember seeing her friend looking drawn and pale at morning practise...had he tortured her, too, until she was little more than a soppy, sobbing bundle of nerves?

Meg's thoughts were punctuated by the sound of wood scraping against stone, though her eyes remained firmly shut. There was a small silence, interrupted only by the ex-ballerina's pathetic sobs. Then, suddenly, a hand reached out gently to stroke her arm, and she was startled nearly out of her tears. The Phantom stood before her, and the half of his face that she could see was plastered with concern. Unused to this sudden display of emotion, Meg's sobs ceased out of shock.

"No more tears," the Phantom whispered, gently, "Don't cry. We can't stop now, we've nearly got it."

"I'm tired," she sighed, and this was evinced by the yawn that claimed her mouth the way her heartsore mentor longed to, "I want to go home." Her eyes shut, and she felt her equillibrium shift. But the hand on her shoulder steadied her, and she felt a second hand brush her cheek lightly, caringly. Her stomach jumped, her breath caught in her throat, and her eyes shot open in sudden wakefulness.

"We can't stop now. One more time, Meg. Once more."

"Once more," she repeated, entranced. The touch was suddenly gone from her, and without apparently moving through the space between, the Phantom was seated again on his stool, his fingers perched over the keys. "Once more," she echoed again, sounding resigned.

"From the top, Mam'selle," he ordered gruffly, and Meg patiently let the few bars of introductory melody waft past before beginning her part. Without stopping the music, her once impatient tutor now called out instructions as she reached each part, and she adapted accordingly. As she did so, she felt her skin begin to tingle as if cold. Even she could hear the difference the Phantom's instructions made. Without his direction, the piece of music was gorgeous. With them, Meg's heart rose and sunk with each arpeggio, her skin goosefleshed and sensitive areas tingled with the incredible sensual power of the organ music combined with her vocal efforts. When the aria ended, and the last echo of the last note of the last chord had faded into muteness, the Phantom's shoulders slumped.

Cautiously, slowly, Meg approached him. Her hand tremulously inched forward until it met the cool velvet of the Phantom's coat. He turned, as if summoned by her touch, and as his face became visible, Meg saw on it a single, lonely tear, sliding down his pale flesh. A shock ran through her, and warm tendrils of ultimate flattery began to spread from each nerve like climbing vines. Gently, she reached out her hand and caressed the side of his face. With her thumb, she brushed the tear off of its course, and accosted a second that threatened to fall when the Phantom closed his eyes.

The magic of the moment lingered longer than Meg expected it to. Even after she retracted her hand, after her tutor opened his eyes. After her tutor turned from her, adjusted his coat, and cleared his throat. It lingered in Meg's heart and mind, allowing a sweet tenderness to steal over her; blissfully unaware of the heated struggle going on inside the Phantom.

As a matter of fact, this deceptive magic was only dispelled when he harshly stated, "Go now."

Meg flinched. She could not sense the barely controlled sorrow that surrounded her mentor's seemingly deflated form through her own sudden tears of surprise and heartache. And if she could have sensed it, how could she have understood such a thing? How could he send her away like that?; Heartlessly, just as if some unspoken miracle had not occured between them?

"But - " she began, plaintively, reaching out to touch him again. But the Phantom waved his hand at her angrily, batting her questing one away sharply and painfully.

"No, leave me. Don't..." he breathed in deeply, and let it out in a sigh heavy with misery, "Don't come back."

The indignant, shocked gasp that emitted from Meg's small throat sliced into the tender flesh of her teacher's burdened heart. But no, he wouldn't let this happen, not again. If something went wrong...how could he trust her not to hurt him? And more importantly, how could he trust himself not to hurt her? He would not, absolutely would not risk betraying the woman who saved his young life by possibly harming her daughter.

"There will be no more lessons," he growled, letting his massively heavy heart drag his shoulders down, and he fell forward into the wood of the organ, "Go home."

There was a long silence, and Meg's chest felt tight, as if she were suddenly ill. But she was her mother's daughter, and in the face of such negative adversity, part of her stood strong. "No," she said, simply.

The Phantom stiffened in shock, though he did not turn to face her. It was the first time she had ever disobeyed him, ever. Part of him was inclined to be proud of her bravery, but most of him was inclined to chastise her stupidity.

"No?" he asked, and the tone in his voice was dangerous. Meg knew she was treading on unstable ground, but she was determined to take a stand, however erratic her footing may be. She would not be ejected without ceremony.

"No," she repeated, her voice beginning to waver, "I won't go home. I won't leave." There was an unspoken 'you,' at the end of her sentence, but in his ire and torture, the Phantom could not sense it.

"Would you rather die?" the Phantom asked, his voice reaching a new level of gravelly, but alluring, baritone. The comment was almost off-handed, but fear flickered in Meg's eyes nevertheless, and she took a tiny step backward, subconsciously, as the man chuckled mirthlessly.

"No," she whispered, though it went without saying.

"Then leave!" The words had all the emotion of a shout, but they seemed to come from lungs too weary to emit a proper cry. Indeed, the Phantom's shoulders were drifting closer to the floor with every second, as if he no longer posessed the strength to sit up properly. Obeying some built-in maternal instinct, Meg rushed forward to keep the man from sliding off of his seat. But the moment her hands touched him, he pushed her back with a deceptive strength that sent her careening into a wall. "You tire me, girl!" he shouted, and this time it really was a shout, "I am sick of the sight of you! Leave now, or face the consequences! If you think I am joking, ask your friend Genvieve!"

He spat the name at her, and not for the first time in his rant did Meg's unhappy breath catch in her throat as a strangled sob. Dealt a mighty blow, Meg stumbled backward, her feet tangling themselves in the velvet laid across the stone, overturning unlit candles and mussing up discarded scores of music. But still the Phantom chased her, shouting such unpleasant things that her heart felt rent into thousands of useless shards.

"Leave me alone!" he cried, his voice breaking in its shrill harshness, "Let me die in peace, torment me no longer! Let me die alone, as I was meant to!"

Meg tripped and fell forward into the boat, splashing some of the foul water up onto herself, and desperately scrabbled for the rudely carved replacement staff. She tried, weakly and falteringly, to row herself away from shore, from the shouting ogre of the Phantom, sobbing loudly and ashamedly in the darkness. Even before the boat had exited through the opened portcullis, which showered Meg with a curtain of the slimey green liquid, the candles were being rapidly extinguished, as if by magic. Behind her, the portcullis slammed shut with such force that a sizeable wave came forward, propelling her craft ever faster to the exit.

Genvieve!

_"He is wearing a black cloak. You will not see his face."_

She'd seen the porcelain shards in the alley, and now there was no doubt in her mind as to the peculiar shape of some of them. Come to think of it, she'd even led the man to his seat. Beyond that, he'd propositioned her! How easily it could have been her to die, that night! Meg was in hysterics when she finally reached the above world, and not even the cool breeze could reassure her. How tempted she had been to say yes! The man's voice, his air of mystery, but more than that, his air of confusion, innocence to the social mores of men, even his distaste for coarse spirits that had set the pub to laughter...they had all endeared him to her, and she felt an immediate affinity for the dark, kindly-seeming stranger. Kindly-seeming! How deceiving looks can be!

He had even called her a sweet girl. It sounded rehearsed, but it felt genuine nonetheless. God in Heaven, she had almost said yes! She had thought it strange, at the time, that she should suddenly decide to throw away her virginity on a man in a pub who would not even show his face...but somehow when he spoke to her, it didn't seem that way at all. He'd seemed so sincere...

_Genvieve!_ her mind screamed, _And it had almost been little Meg!_


	6. Monster

* * *

Chapter 6: Monster

* * *

The Phantom could not play. Try as he might, he could not bring himself to play. Tears blurred his vision, and anyway his hands shook so badly that they could not hit the right notes. In his frustration, he pounded heavily on the keys, repeatedly, adding his tortured scream to the dischord of protest his instrument gave off.

He was a monster! A terrible creature! And, like a creature, he screamed and stood; like a lion with a flaming torch tied to his tail. He dashed to his sitting-room, as he called it, filled with the haunting pictures of Christine, and ran at them in a blind rage. White-hot fury dashed through his veins like poison, as his hands reached forward and grasped a handful of his paper devotions and ripped them from the pile. Animalistically, he tore at them as though his fingers were claws, ripped apart her likeness the way she had ripped apart his heart. Scraps of once-treasured paper floated through the disturbed air like burning ash from a volcano of hurt, landing harmlessly in the water, on the floor beside him, or landing in his hair as if unwilling to let him be.

If there were words that echoed in those anguished screams, those moans of absolute loathing and emptiness, they were lost for the slurring, shrieking voice that propelled them outward. For what words could be put to such absolute dejection? Such a mad, furious sorrow that caused the Phantom to tear and tear until his hands bled from hundreds of tiny lacerations in his hands, that caused him to scream until he could barely cry for the pain in his dry throat. But his tearing, his screaming...gave him no satisfaction. He had destroyed almost all he had created for Christine in his fit, and yet he fell, sobbing hopelessly, to the paper-littered floor of his abode.

His mouth began to form soundless words, but no voice accompanied them. He shook his head in disbelief, in self-hatred too deep to express. For how long he lay there, in that unloving darkness, still but without rest, he did not know. His mind was barely coherent enough to form proper thoughts in the muddled fog of lacrimosa that had settled in the dingy streets of his brain.

Eventually he dragged his sorry carcass off of the floor, and he began to stumble forward, toward his bedroom. No, that was too far away; but perhaps he could make it to the peacock before he simply expired. He staggered up the stairs, his legs scarcely supporting his weight as he tripped along and ran headlong into the doorway of the curtained _automata_ room. The curtain tore down as he grasped it for balance, and he fell into the room, at the naked, wooden feet of the _automat_ he had designed to resemble his love. His only love, or so he had thought.

"Christine," he moaned, his voice regaining some form of sound, "Oh, Christine..."

Using her stiff form to raise himself upward, he cast his arms about her waist and lay his head on her shoulder. She was cold, hard, wooden...his dead wife, he'd thought of her. He even chuckled, such was his fatigue, his mania. "A dead wife for a dead husband," he said, and could not fight back the broken cry of pain and love that racked his breath afterward.

"You, at least, will love me...won't you?" he begged, looking into the vacant eyes of the oversized doll. He stroked her unliving cheek, kissed her unfeeling lips, let his tears fall on her artificial skin. Then: "...No," he choked, letting his forehead drop again to her shoulder, "You can't love me...no one can."

A contrary thought stabbed at the Phantom's all ready decimated heart, _You'll never know, now, will you?_ The breath he drew was hateful, hurtful, and hopeless. Meg was gone forever, now. For Christ's sake, could he not simply have invited her for a glass of champagne? Could he not have allowed himself to pursue one final happiness? Did he have to ruin everything he touched?

"I'll never know, Christine!" he cried, loudly, "I chased her away. I chased her away, Christine! Why did I chase her away...when by all accounts, I seem to love her? I know I don't deserve happiness...but I wanted to...so badly...I wanted to kiss her...sweet mouth," his voice broke, "But I shall never know love...happiness..." his voice trailed off into a silent mouthing as he clung to the false idol for some semblence of uprightness. "I told her my crime...she will never come back. She will never love me. No one will ever love me...not even myself...especially not myself...!"

As his deformed cheek slid down the wooden side of Christine's leg, uncaring of splinters or discomfort, the Phantom felt that his tears would surely choke him, drown him, put an end to this bottomless pit of self-loathing and loneliness that he wallowed in.

"No one...will ever love me..."

* * *

Meg was in such a state when she finally stumbled in through the door that her mother was almost obliged to call a doctor, had Meg not so vehemently insisted that she do no such thing. Instead, Madame Giry held her poor daughter's shaking form as she cried violently into her chest, much like the way she had done when her father died, noisily and without shame. Whatever sorrow she felt outweighed any thoughts of self-consciousness. This sorrow, in fact, was so terrible, that it was impossible for the woman, to whom empathy was first nature, to keep her own eyes from shedding tears; to keep her own heart from breaking.

"Meg, hush," her mother forced out, but in vain. The distraught little Giry only cried the harder, as the two of them sat on the hallway floor. After struggling with the lock, Meg had fallen straight into the door, and then to the floor beyond, tearful. Her mother was there in a moment, in her night-dress, and with a freshly lit candle, to attend to her hysterical offspring. After a while, Madame Giry stood, and helped Meg to stand, as well. She brought the girl upstairs, to her room, and tucked her into her bed, and then rushed off, promising a mug of chamomile tea.

Once alone, Meg found that she could only cry harder. Her hands groped instinctively at her dampening pillow, as if hoping to find some comfort in their downy luxury. She was not used to feeling so many emotions at once - shock, fatigue, fear, longing... It had all happened so fast. One moment, she was closer to him than she'd ever been before; closer to loving him than she'd ever been before. The next, he was again the cold killer, the Opera Ghost of her childhood nightmares, screaming at her and chasing her away with horrible threats. It seemed like a fevered dream, and Meg desperately wished that it was. After all, she'd been so exhausted, lately...perhaps this was merely the vomitings of an unwell mind.

But the warm, crisp smell of chamomile woke Meg out of the helpless stupor she'd fallen into. The warm tea, seasoned with her bitter tears, did little to help her nerves, though it did soothe her aching throat. Seeming to sense that her little daughter desired privacy, Mme. Giry left the tray on her bedside table, and respectfully exited the room.

He'd killed Genvieve...Meg had not known her well, but the girl was barely four years older than she was...and the idea that she'd been so close to meeting the same unpleasant fate sent frightful chills down Meg's back.

And yet...somehow...Meg's eyes and nose burned with imminent tears, her throat filled with hot, choking fear and shame...somehow she still cared for him. She still cared for that cloaked man, that stranger in the shadows, that voice in her mind. But she knew, as she lay herself down on the pillow, her tea barely touched, that her mind was not at all to be trusted until she'd had a decent sleep. It took only moments for sleep to claim the crying girl from her misery.


End file.
